


Long beside the bitter of the skin (today won't know when to begin)

by little_fella (na_shao)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Healer!Credence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Mentions of past violent events, Post-Grindelwald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 16:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12610752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/pseuds/little_fella
Summary: His scarf is knotted over his mouth before he lowers it to his neck again, wanting to feel the rush of icy wind. The snow bites into his face, prickling the rim of the head where the hair starts coming out.The drifting accumulation and fragments of bone taken from the wound.A slash of blood against snowy fields.There are days where it’s hard to care about ordinary things.





	Long beside the bitter of the skin (today won't know when to begin)

**Author's Note:**

> A little gift for my partner in crime [Lynx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusRox/pseuds/LotusRox) who deserves everything and the very best. Ilu honey, I hope you like this! /o/
> 
> Title comes from _Wasted daylight_ by Stars.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this and, as usual, will proceed to go back to my batcave to hide. /o/

 

 

The snow beats down implacably on the asphalt from the purest shade of white the sky can sport in winter as Credence heads home early after a night shift, the eerie stillness of pure ivory enveloping every street to render any upcoming noise foreign, each one of them becoming as loud as offensive spells that crack clamorously through battles and war zones.

His scarf is knotted over his mouth before he lowers it to his neck again, wanting to feel the rush of icy wind. The snow bites into his face, prickling the rim of the head where the hair starts coming out.

The drifting accumulation and fragments of bone taken from the wound.

_A slash of blood against snowy fields._

There are days where it’s hard to care about ordinary things.

This plump helium heart of his — this thing of beauty whose gentle blood slips from ribcage to head, from brain to wrist — that beats so hard in his chest under the day’s white mess of clouds; a heart that is trailing its gold ribbon like lightning along the thick muscles in motion. Its core; a body of its own; an endless repetition of veins and muscles and swirls of scarlet liquid bathing in there; and the smell of lightning, of old rain turned solid and frozen.

A long, heavy sigh escapes Credence’s lips. The snow makes time harder to track and his thoughts bigger than they should be—

_“You can’t always save everyone, Barebone, you can’t, and your Obscurus has no such power either.”_

_“But I want to try—”_

_“Sometimes it’s impossible and you have to accept it.”_

_“But—”_

_“Barebone, didn’t your husband’s case teach you a thing or two about saving people?”_

_“My husband didn’t die!” he wants to say—_

_It comes out as, “it did.” And there’s a red yolk of sun dropping to the curtains behind them, a kind reminder of sunset coming as it follows the beginning of a difficult evening._

_Because it did, actually, teach him something; that he had failed Percival, somehow; not that he had saved him._

_The path of rays is purple in the dusk as they leave the office._

Frost spreads along the bumps of old welts upon his palms, and it gathers against the quiet yellow-pink of his flesh; gathers like dawn and love curling up in piles of leaves and bones.

 _A body vaporised by shadows— a memory outlined. A ghost of what it used to be; of who_ he _used to be._

He shakes his head as volutes of vapor spin gently in the air, dancing hand in hand with snowflakes. _White sand,_ he thinks. White sand flecking his eyelids and dusting his hair with chalky ivory— white flecks on his chapped lips. It reminds him of drops of blood sizzling, evaporating so quickly. _The taste of cold; the touch of it. Furtive, not quite there, but not quite leaving, either._

Slowly— the smiles of skulls grow bearable through the halo of pale light that daytime casts as the breeze is slight enough just to brush, this time.

 

* * *

 

Icy fingertips brush across Percival’s back and trace arabesques slowly up his spine when Credence eventually makes it home; snow has replaced a few pools of clear water by the time he reaches the brownstone in the stillness of early morning.

“You’re frozen to the bone, baby,” Percival growls gently when a shudder runs along his back at the sketchy scratch of frost; warm lips touch Credence’s neck as the younger man clutches at Percival’s shirt— under his palms, the older man’s heart is a feathery thunder of vibrations and affection.

“It’s nothing,” Credence sighs in his embrace. Thick fingers sweep away dark curls made bouncy with sweat and exhaustion, ice and liquid frost; the distinctive trace of healing magic curls up in the air— spelling long hours spent with patients and peculiar wounds of an unknown kind, for No-Majs, to Percival.

Credence leans into the touch with a slow exhale, allowing his husband a broader access to his throat. It stirs a slow fire of desire in his lower belly, burning flakes of sugar and melting wax, silky layers of skin in their coral heat.

“Hmm, not quite sure about that,” Percival mouths against the thin layer of dawn-tinted flesh. “Bad night?” and the words rumble there like a secret murmured to this neck, soft and quiet. _A secret; our secret._

There’s a long, heavy sigh escaping Credence. “It’s always difficult with night shifts,” he manages— but it’s quiet, oh so quiet, _far too quiet_ to Percival’s taste; that’s when he knows that something deep, something raw hit his husband during his shift— that’s when the tremors in his hands make sense; that’s when the left side of his lips, slightly chewed pink, slightly bitten, makes sense.

“There’s something you are not telling me.”

A moment of pure worry, aspen gold. Warm air ghosts over Percival’s neck.

“ _Perce,_ ” Credence mumbles with a notable dash of warning, “it’s nothing.”

Percival catches his hips, squeezes softly. “Alright.” He presses a steady kiss to his husband’s forehead. “Made you breakfast.”

Credence’s face perks up, a bright joy making the dress of his whiskey eyes irradiate light; pure, translucent white phosphorus burning on its own. “Burnt toast and bacon?”

“I didn’t burn anything, today.”

“Which means that it isn’t your signature breakfast, sweetheart,” Credence retorts with a smirk. _“If it isn’t burnt, it isn’t Percival’s.”_

Percival huffs. “Are you _really_ quoting Seraphina, now? Besides, I’ve been trying hard not to burn things in the kitchen since we’ve been married, you’ll have to give me that.”

Credence’s smirk only grows wider. “You have shown wonderful skills at _extra_ burning, actually.”

There’s only a deep chuckle in reply; and his fingers start kneading into the tight muscles of Credence’s upper back— those gentle, shallow pressures Percival still manages to produce out of these fingers of his that once got torn and broken into horrific shapes; and if they happen to tremble and bear white, silvery scars along their lengths, Credence doesn’t mention it, only admires the fact that tenderness and quiet strength could bloom out of terror and make a rose of patience and delicate touches blossom instead; even if anger was never completely brewed and still throbs in his veins, giving shape to what is unspoken, to forsythia buds and blooms in his arms.

Seems like the apple orchard where blossoms unfold when he touches him— as rain evaporates off golden fruits, when the surface glistens; pleasure in the veins of a sugar maple, and Percival catches Credence’s tremors at his touch, catches the magic prickling out of his skin in goosebumps.

“Sweetheart,” Credence breathes softly against the fuzzy, blurred edges of darkness; the clear, white light of pleasure shining at the tips of his fingers. “Didn’t you t—talk about— _breakfast?_ ”

“Let yourself go,” Percival answers in a swift murmur, hot, strong hands grabbing his sides; his words enough to make Credence’s lips tingle. “Let it all go. It doesn’t matter for now. It’s all about _you,_ baby.”

He runs the pad of his thumb over one nipple and twists, gently.

Warm lips trail down his neck; warm hands curl on his hips as Percival gets down on his knees, as he gets his husband out of his trousers; and sinks his teeth in the generous flesh inside of his right thigh, pale milk and peachy cream exposed there, teasing the flesh until it turns a lovely shade of crimson burn just bitten by the sun. Credence chokes on a sharp breath _(a few lilacs in awkward positions)—_

And Percival nuzzles back up against his stomach, breathing him in _(the soft scent of cinnamon and acrid smell of cleaners from the hospital; lemon and chloroform)_ , presses hot, open-mouthed kisses against his belly and tongues him from his navel downwards, appreciating the view of white lace curved around Credence’s hipbones when he reaches him there, a gift for their last wedding anniversary— a complete set that Credence loves wearing so much it gave Percival _lots_ of ideas. He looks up at his darling and gives him a devastating smile, to which Credence flushes under _(god, the force of that gaze)_ and lowers his eyes, setting them somewhere else, _everywhere else_ in the room.

_Together, how they peel into their own shadows, like losing of their names on the way or faking death._

His cock is straining against the fabric with a small wet patch at the tip— gorgeous length stuck there that Percival wants to have for himself so much it tingles upon his lips as Credence’s body unstitches before him.

Fingers twisted in the waistband; a slow drag and the panties are down and discarded. As soon as Credence’s cock springs free, Percival doesn’t waste time; not that there’s no time — there is _plenty_ of time; yet, they are crashing ships in the night and Credence needs him, his magic sizzling laboriously through the vast expanse of capillary and blue vessels.

He runs his tongue along Credence’s cock, from balls to head, and the sounds die on Credence’s tongue— crawl away; long gone and dying in a heavy exhale rattling in molten lungs. Slick, wet heat engulfs him soon after, and Percival taking him in his mouth is always hot and solid and controlled, perfect licks and lips stretching, impeccable, around his length, his palm squeezing around the base.

Losing his edges mouthing his name;

_Percival—_

_P—e—r—c—i—v—a—l._

Credence tries to muffle his cries as he tangles his lanky fingers in his husband’s short strands of dark gasoline that stand for hair, salt coiling in between a few of them, the sensation instantly overwhelming as Percival takes him in deep.

He lets his head fall back and swallows hard, trying to hold himself still— _breathe, breathe._

_The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist._

Percival only sucks harder and Credence finally breaks, thrusts his hips up to meet deeper within his mouth— swallows him to the root until he hears sobs of pleasure above him, feels flesh evaporating and becoming semi-skin, semi-coal dust.

Their gazes meet; and Percival slowly releases him with a wet _pop_ , lips a sharp red, wet and utterly _fucked._

“Baby, you’re losing touch,” he whispers gently _(oh the husky accents in his voice, rough from being tucked in and fucked thoroughly),_ watching the Obscurus rise in low light.

A hitched breath—

Credence blinks back at him with eyes half-white, half-amber, their gentle dress of whiskey autumn spices revealing back again slowly; a general luminescence.

There’s a soft laugh coming from Percival and before Credence knows it, his husband closes his lips over the flushed purplish-red tip of his cock all over again, tendrils of pleasure curling through Credence fiercely; and Percival’s silky little curls of black hair are brushing over his forehead gently as his head bobs back and forth around the younger man’s cock, swallowing him into his throat in one movement every single time. Spit runs from his lips down his chin; a beautiful sight.

Credence jerks, his whole body spilling into liquid heat against the wall supporting his back, and he winds his fingers in his locks—

Anchoring—

Then gasps, moans, whimpers, wants more, _needs more, so much more, head spinning on until he grows dizzy._

“Perce, _Perce— please,_ ” he pleads, voice rough and needy. “Please—”

_Bear inside me his outcome—_

Percival’s palms flatten over Credence’s soft stomach _(softer than before— a little rounder like a newborn bud of rose ready to blossom into its broader self; pleasure that progress, the horizon)_ as he circles his tip with his tongue, pushing into his slit and licking the precome gathering heavily there— and Credence finds himself relaxing his muscles to allow his cock to push into the back of his throat, Percival taking it all up, hollowing out his cheeks.

A sharp, warning pull of Percival’s hair— feeling the vibrations all through him, the waves of pleasure rippling through Credence’s body as soft, hot suctions happen around him—

_Kiss me open mouthed, crush me for ice so it shatters on my tongue;_

Tightening his hands in his hair again—

The pressure of the waistband of his lace panties biting into his ankles—

And he cries out until his voice is hoarse, pours into Percival’s mouth; Credence tastes lovely, that he knows— bitter and sweet, soft and solid. Credence pulls him up gently, heavy lidded and satisfied before he kisses the remains off his husband’s lips and tongue— here in his eyes, the fucked out bliss, the delighted fuzz of a brain put on hold at _fucking_ last.

Credence cups a hand around Percival’s jaw, smiles so happily; gentle, strong, healing Credence Graves. “Thank you,” is what he murmurs in the creases of Percival’s wet mouth, “for taking care of me.”

He buries his face in the older man’s shoulder, a crack of cherry-red flush running all the way to his ears.

_Their light that pulls so surely out of everything; pours out from corners and curves and tangerine shapes._

“Do you _even_ have to thank me, baby?” Percival mumbles with a smirk in his tracks, holding onto the younger man tightly, arms wrapped up around his pulpy waist. “Of course I would take care of you. _Through thin and thick,_ remember?”

Body slumped, muscles slack— Percival’s palm, warm and heavy, quickly covers his husband’s soft fingers, intertwine them together _(the heavy weight of rings— the stone of Credence’s engagement one catching against Percival’s golden band)_ and Percival’s eyes are so fond that Credence is filled with warmth all the way down to his toes.

Clean blood pumps from his heart; and maybe it really is the beginning of a new dawn, now, the true, exact moment where he is awaken and taken back from the hospital, away from his ward, away from his team of Healers.

It’s that sweet pressure of hands, the gentle relief of mouths combined— the softest squeeze of fingers on plush hips; Percival’s hovering over him, faces inches apart, close enough to kiss and steal affection, a haze similar to the sun filtering through a thick curtain.

“Breakfast, you said?”


End file.
